“Exquisite,” he says as he studies my lines, my various hues.
But I feel abstract; complex but not concrete and meaningless in the grand scheme of things
and blurred. The coda so then begins
because I’ll dance before him one last time and take my exit. My hips don’t seem to want
to shimmy anymore.
shake as I fold, origami like, paper thin these
I fancy a better me at
someone more ethereal, above it but in the mirror, I’m faced with truth, a
cacophony of voices,
cruel, familiar, condemning until I consent, agree. My heart aches but I hear
it’s meant to be. Not one dragon’s been slayed since I’ve arrived
and I fear it must be me. So, I’ve shelved the promise
(premise?), fermenting into what they want. It’s the mouth that’s
screwed me up and I’m
sorry, just sorry. For being sad and that I don’t know what
to say now, for the commencement of the end and how it had to be.
The palpitations, too. I want to
be so much more unaffected by the discord, the hoarseness in my voice. If I
could, I’d write a more melodious tune, but the
sneers of blame
me long ago. When I clamor to stand, they push me down, so I’ve made a
sort-of home on the ground.
Shh. Shh. Child, who are you speaking to? And why not to me? Stand, child. There’s truth you don’t yet know. But you know enough to stand. You know my voice. Listen. Let it drown out the others. Listen, now. I’m speaking. The song of your life is not mere noise, it’s beauteous as you. You are free. From condemnation, blame and guilt. And the name on you is Mine. My joy is yours, as is my peace and Promises, I keep. Come and listen. Come, believe. Oh, child, the mirror. Your mirror does lie and the dance is done by me. I see you. I see you. Rise.
The Sunday Whirl